


When an Angel Descends

by Megg33k



Category: Doctor Who (2005), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Reunions, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-29
Updated: 2012-11-29
Packaged: 2017-11-19 20:58:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/577583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Megg33k/pseuds/Megg33k
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John watches 'The Angels Take Manhattan'...</p>
            </blockquote>





	When an Angel Descends

**Author's Note:**

> I've had this floating around in my head for a bit, and I need more words for NaNoWriMo. So, here's this thing I wrote...

“Is there a way down?” the television asked in a frantic, feminine voice.

“Ah… no… but there’s a way out,” came the reply.

John Watson’s heart nearly stopped. Since Sherlock’s fall, telly had been the one thing he’d relied on to take him away from the emotional ache of his daily grind. But this? It was like his favourite show had set its sights on thrusting him back in to a spiral of depression and rage. A few moments later, when the thin man nearly tipped backwards off the rooftop, John fell to his knees on the floor of his flat. PTSD was a heartless bitch.

“To save you, I could do anything,” the man professed, and John’s lungs officially went on strike, leaving him absolutely gasping and choking for a breath.

As the loving couple hurled in slow-motion toward the pavement, red hair drifting in the breeze, John’s mind forced him to replay that awful day outside of St. Bart’s. And the scene in his head played out at least twice a slowly. The cemetery that followed was far too familiar as well… except when he went to visit, Sherlock was never there.

“Why them?” John shouted, pounding on the floor. “Why not Sherlock?” He was gasping out words between long, silent sobs. His chest ached, and there was no word obscene enough and no scream loud enough to voice his displeasure with the universe.

“Because real people don’t come back from the dead,” said a baritone voice from behind him.

John spun in place and looked up to see Sherlock standing over him. Shock replaced whatever melting pot of emotions he’d been feeling only moments before. “No, you can’t…” He looked back at the floor. “Great! Now I’m hallucinating. I need to call my fucking therapist.”

“You’re not hallucinating, John,” Sherlock assured him, sinking to his knees as well.

John timidly felt the chest and shoulders of the man who couldn’t be, the man he’d watched die. “This is impossible. What are you doing here?”

“Changing the future. It’s call—”

The knuckles of John’s hand cracked as his fist connected with Sherlock’s face, knocking him back on his heels. Sherlock’s hand was flew to his mouth, and when it was slowly lowered, John could clearly see blood trickling out of a split lip. “Ghosts don’t bleed,” he mumbled under his breath.

“I told you; I’m very real. And I’m very sorry… _so, so sorry_.”

John crawled forward, his face rife with wonderment, until he was impossibly close to Sherlock, both of them sharing the same air. His thumb traced Sherlock’s sharp cheekbone, his fingers disappearing into a nest of inky curls. Clear, crystalline eyes stared apologetically back at him, with just a hint of fear.

As John straddled Sherlock’s thighs, leaning even closer, Sherlock flinched. But as soon as John’s tongue soothed over the gash on Sherlock’s lip, the detective relax and allowed his eyelids to flutter closed. Then Sherlock’s hands cradled John’s face, their lips parting and immediately reconnecting.

“I missed you, John.” Sherlock’s breath filled John’s mouth.

John kissed him harder in response. “I loved you,” he finally replied.

“Past tense?”

“From the very beginning.”

“And now?”

“Till the very end.”

Sherlock’s arms snaked around him, wrapping him up and pulling him close. “And I you.”

John moaned into Sherlock’s mouth, his own hips dragging along Sherlock’s in a gentle roll. “How did you know to come back? How did you know it had to be right then?”

“Unsurprisingly—” Sherlock unbuttoned the first button of John’s shirt. “—Mycroft knows Steven—” And then another. “—who saw fit to warn him this episode might be difficult for you to watch.” And then a third. “What did surprise me—” The fourth slipped through its hole and shirt tails were tugged loose. “—was Mycroft’s forethought to tell me it was time to come home—” The fifth was undone. “—to come back to you.” Then the sixth. Sherlock’s hands smoothed over John’s chest.

“What’re you doing?” John asked, his voice more breath than sound.

“Proving that I’m real and showing you just how much I missed you?”

“This isn’t… I mean… I thought you didn’t—”

Sherlock smirked. “I just never had a good reason before.”

“And this is a good reason?”

“ _You’re_ a good reason.”

And John’s ghost was hot and firm but also soft and supple. Flesh that couldn’t possibly exist was very real within his grip. It reddened with his bite, bled with the scratch of his nails, stretched against his fingers and then around his cock. There was life behind the eyes that stared through to his soul, life and love and all the apologies the universe could hold. And the long, elegant neck pulsed with a heartbeat—a very fast, very hard heartbeat –and the throat within moaned with passion. The body beneath him responded with intensity and vigor. An apparition wasn’t meant to fuck with such voracity or cum with such ferocity or scream John’s name like an exaltation or whisper it like a prayer.

For a man who imagined his every night ending alone, his every morning beginning in silence, his every day filled with loneliness, nothing was as he expected. Having resigned himself to a life of unspoken love, uncorrectable mistakes, unforgiveable regrets, this was more than a second chance. And, as he nuzzled at the crook of Sherlock’s neck, John asked again, “Are you real?”

Sherlock merely kissed his head and held him tight and apologized profusely, and John… John never saw an angel take The Ponds. Because when an angel descends into your flat, into your arms, into your _bed_ , that’s better than anything a bit of telly can offer.

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted it to be better than this, but I worry my quality is suffering after writing nearly 5,000 words today. Sorry if that was awful.


End file.
